by Eugène Sue
In spite of myself I was struck by the expression with which Madame de V —— uttered these words.
This attack of sensitiveness, however, was of short duration; for she soon commenced answering with her accustomed gaiety and bantering to the minister’s gallantries. He, with considerable difficulty, had shaken off the Baron de V —— — , and had come up to us.
Caring very little to be a third in M. de Sérigny’s company, I rose. Madame de V —— then said: “Do not forget that I am always at home on Thursdays, so as to avoid me on those days which are devoted to bores; but on the other days, if your triumphs leave you leisure, do not neglect an old friend. You are pretty sure to find me in the mornings, and sometimes even of an evening before I make my evening toilet.” With these words, which she accompanied with a most gracious smile, she rose, took M. de Sérigny’s arm, and said: “I would like a cup of tea, for I am cold.”
“I am at your service, madame,” said the minister, who happily had assumed his most absent and indifferent smile, while Madame de V —— invited me to call and see her.
Returning to the salon, my eyes sought Madame de Fersen; I met her glance, which seemed austere.
I went home.
When I was no longer under the charm of Madame de V — — ‘s attractive face, I compared that daring levity with Madame de Fersen’s dignified and serious grace. I also compared the profound respect and almost obsequious reserve with which men approached her to the cavalier deportment they exhibited towards Madame de V —— — , and I felt more and more how powerful is the attraction a virtuous woman possesses, and I felt my love for Catherine still increasing.
I was glad that I might look forward to meeting Irene at the Tuileries, and that I had been so well understood by Madame de Fersen. I fancied also — was it an illusion of love? — that Madame de Fersen had seemed almost sad at my long conversation with Madame de V —— .
CHAPTER XVII.
THE TUILERIES.
I WAITED WITH extreme impatience the hour for going to the Tuileries to meet Irene.
I attached a thousand thoughts of love and noble devotion in reflecting that that child was coming to me covered with the bloom of her mother’s kisses, and doubtless bringing me a thousand secret wishes.
About one o’clock, though the air was opaque with a slight autumnal fog, I saw Irene approaching, accompanied by her nurse, an excellent woman who had filled the same position to Madame de Fersen.
Generally at Toulon, or Lyons for instance, where we had made a few days’ stay, one of the princess’s maids, followed by a footman, had always accompanied Irene in her walks.
I noticed with pleasure that Madame de Fersen, by entrusting her little girl this time to the nurse, of whose attachment she felt sure, had understood the necessity of keeping these meetings secret.
Tears sprang to my eyes when I saw how much Irene had changed. Her charming face was pale and pinched; no longer with its habitual pallor, delicate and roseate, but with a sickly pallor; her large eyes had dark rings under them, and her cheeks, formerly plump and round, were now slightly hollowed.
Irene did not see me at first; she walked close to her nurse, her pretty head bent down, her arms hanging, and with the tips of her pretty feet she crushed the dead leaves which littered the path.
“Good morning, Irene,” I said to her.
Scarcely had she heard the sound of my voice, than she gave a piercing cry, threw herself into my arms, closed her eyes and fainted.
I carried her to a bench near by with the help of Madame Paul, her nurse.
“I feared this shock, monsieur,” she said to me; “fortunately, I brought a bottle of salts with me. Poor child! she is so nervous.”
“Look — look,” said I, “the colour returns to her cheeks; her hands are not so cold; she is regaining consciousness.”
In fact, this attack passed, Irene raised herself, and when she could sit up she hung to my neck, shedding silent tears which fell hot upon my cheeks.
“Irene, Irene, my dearest, do not weep thus. I shall see you every day.”
I pressed her hands while my eyes sought hers.
She held herself up, and with a familiar motion of her head, full of grace and vivacity, she threw back the big curls which half concealed her tear-stained eyes. Then fastening upon me one of her steady, piercing glances, she said to me:
“I believe what you say. Will you not come to see me here, since you cannot come to our house?”
“Yes, Mlle. Irene,” answered the nurse. “Monsieur will come to see you every day, if you promise to be very good, — not to cry, and to do what the doctor orders you.”
“Certainly, my dear child; for unless you promise that, you will not see me again,” I added, with great seriousness.
“You would never again see monsieur,” rejoined Madame Paul, with an air of severity.
“But, Paul,” exclaimed Irene, stamping her little foot with charming fractiousness, “you know very well I shall no longer cry. I shall not be ill any more, for I shall see him every day.”
The good nurse gave me a touching glance. I quickly embraced Irene, and said to her, “Explain to me, little one, why you are so glad to see me?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her brown curls, with an air of sweet, unconscious simplicity. “When you look at me, I cannot help going to you, your eyes draw me; and when you do not look at me, then I feel so badly here,” and she placed her hand on her heart. “And then at night, I see you in my dreams, with me and the angels up there.” She raised her little finger and her large eyes solemnly towards heaven. Then with a sigh she added, “And, besides, you are good, like Ivan.”
I could not help starting.
Madame Paul, evidently informed of this mysterious adventure, exclaimed:— “Mademoiselle, remember what your mother told you.”
But engrossed in her thoughts, and seeming not to have heard her nurse’s remark, Irene continued:
“Only, when I dreamt of Ivan and the angels, I never saw my mother up there; but since I dream of you, my mother is always with us. I told mamma so,” Irene added, seriously.
Madame Paul looked at me again, and bursting into tears said: “Ah, monsieur, all my dread is that this child will not live; her beauty, her gravity, like her ideas and her character, are not suited to her age, are not of this world. Would you believe it, except to the princess, to you, and to me, she never speaks to any one of what she has just said? The princess has impressed upon her not to mention to any one that she saw you here, and I am very sure she never will. Ah, monsieur, I pray Heaven daily that this child may be spared to us.”
“And she will be spared, be assured! Children who are silent and thoughtful are always dreamy and excitable; it is not surprising. Do not be uneasy. Well, good-bye, Irene; and you, Madame Paul, assure the princess of my respectful regards, and say how grateful I am for the promise she made me to send me daily my little friend.”
“Adieu, then, till to-morrow, Irene,” and I kissed her tenderly.
“Till to-morrow,” repeated the child, with a happy but grave and serious smile.
Then her nurse wrapped her warm pelisse around her, and Irene went off, turning several times, however, to say adieu with her little hand.
Superstitious as I am, and inclined to tender and lofty sentiments by my love for Catherine, this conversation had aroused in me the most varied emotions, — emotions at once sombre and beaming, cruel and radiant.
I was happy. The strange predictions which Irene repeated to her mother must, if Catherine loved me, recall me to her heart daily, and it was the voice of her child, her beloved child, which continually uttered my name!
And this strange, fatal connection between Ivan’s death and the fate that might be awaiting me, — must it not act upon Madame de Fersen’s imagination and excite her interest in me? If she saw but little of me, did she not know that this reserve on my part was a cruel sacrifice I imposed upon myself for her s
ake?
At other times, I acknowledge the weakness, the persistency of Irene’s predictions, in spite of myself, chilled me.
I experienced a sort of vertigo, of fearful attraction, similar to that which draws you to look down a precipice when you are walking at its edge.
Unless the weather was too cold or rainy, the nurse brought Irene to me every day.
By degrees she returned to blooming health.
About a fortnight after our first meeting, she brought me a large bouquet of roses, telling me her mother sent them, but, unfortunately, they were not as beautiful as the rosed of Khios.
This souvenir of Catherine’s overjoyed me, for I had spoken to her with enthusiasm of those lovely roses.
Every day after that Irene brought me roses; and every day also she told me, with an air of mystery, without ever making a mistake, what her mother would do that evening, whether she was going to court, or in society, or to the theatre.
Thanks to this amiable forethought of Madame de Fersen, I met her very frequently. I went regularly to her receptions, and, therefore, saw her almost every evening; but as in society I confined myself to greeting her most respectfully, exchanging merely a few ceremonious words, our meetings were unobserved.
Once or twice I called on her of a morning; but by a singular chance, or rather in consequence of the assiduities with which she was surrounded, I never found her alone.
Had I asked her for a private interview she would have granted it, but, true to the plan I had mapped out, I would not ask for it at present.
Besides, a smile, a glance that we mysteriously exchanged in the crowd, did it not repay me a thousand times for my reserve and my discretion?
Would I not give the most public and most marked attentions for the slightest favour which should be unknown to the world!
Notwithstanding the daily intercourse which I maintained with Madame de Fersen through Irene, notwithstanding our exchange of flowers (for each day I also brought Irene a beautiful bouquet of roses, which her mother wore at night), not a soul suspected this delightful intimacy.
As a measure of prudence I would meet Irene in turn at the Tuileries, at the Luxembourg, at Mousseaux, or on the boulevards. I never made use of my horses to go to these meetings, for fear of attracting attention.
I wrapped myself up in a cloak, and took delight in putting as much mystery in these meetings as if Madame de Fersen herself had been in question.
It was perfect folly, but I waited for the hour of meeting with this child full of candour and innocence with a loving, restless, ardent impatience; I counted the minutes, the seconds; I feared and hoped by turns; in fact, I experienced all the irritating and delicious emotions of the most passionate love.
I commented eagerly on each of Irene’s words, to seek, to discover, her mother’s secret thought! And when I fancied I could interpret this thought in a manner more tender than usual, I returned home with paradise in my heart.
Inexhaustible treasures of a pure and chaste love! Philosophers, atheists, or the strong-minded in love will, doubtless, mock me. I myself, before my sojourn at Khios, would not have understood all its charm.
I was now more than ever in love.
By the rare versatility of her endowments, Madame de Fersen achieved an exalted position in society. Calumny itself admired her and praised her beyond measure, doubtless to give a colour of impartiality, whereby its accusations became more dangerous.
My interviews with Irene had continued for about three weeks.
One evening at one of Madame de Fersen’s receptions, the prince said to me, in confidence:
“The frivolous and subtle air of Paris is fatal to serious thought; the trifles of the world gain the mastery over reason. Would you believe it, Caesar’s wife has become quite indifferent to the interests of the empire! In a word, can you realise that Madame de Fersen has become totally heedless of politics? Can you imagine such a thing?”
I compared this symptom with the signs of impatience and uneasiness shown by Catherine during my long conversation with Madame de V —— , and I resolved to push further my observations.
The next evening at a ball at the English embassy, at which Madame de Fersen was present, I again met Madame de V —— .
I paid assiduous attentions to her the whole evening, and observed Madame de Fersen’s countenance; it was impassible.
Next day I feared, or rather I hoped, that Irene would not appear at her accustomed hour, or that she might come perhaps without her bouquet. I would have considered this change as a mark of resentment or jealousy on the part of Madame de Fersen; but Irene and the bouquet of roses appeared as usual.
Piqued by this indifference, and wishing to ascertain if it were real; desirous, also, of completely misleading public opinion, I continued to pay the most marked attentions to Madame de V —— .
Delighted to have found a means of annoying the minister, and of keeping him constantly agitated and on the watch, Madame de V —— encouraged me with all her might.
She called this exhibition of cruel coquetry “heaping fuel upon the fire.”
Now, at the risk of being taken for a log (as Pluvier would have said), I so skilfully fed the devouring jealousy of the minister that, after eight or ten days of this kind of courting, Madame de V —— and I found ourselves horribly compromised; and it was generally recognised and taken for granted that the reign, or rather the bondage, of the minister was at an end.
I became aware of the gravity of these absurd rumours by the friendly, courteous, and gracious tone of the minister, who was too much a man of the world to appear cold or sulky towards his supposed rival.
This discovery enlightened me as to the folly of my conduct, which not only might wound Madame de Fersen, if she loved me, but might lower me irreparably in her estimation. Instinctively I felt that I had pushed things too far.
These fears were increased by a singular circumstance.
One evening at a concert at Lord P— ‘s, I had been for some time chatting with Madame de V —— . We were in a small parlour where only a few persons were gathered. Little by little, these adjourned to the tearoom, leaving Madame de V —— and myself perfectly alone.
I was preoccupied from a very natural cause; Madame V —— had just informed me of the receipt of a letter announcing the arrival of Madame de Pënâfiel in Rome.
While talking, I happened to look at a mirror, reflecting the door of the salon. What was my amazement when I saw Madame de Fersen, whose eyes were fastened on me with a most sorrowful look!
I quickly rose, but she disappeared.
I awaited the morrow with anxiety.
Irene came, as usual, with her bouquet of roses, and told me her mother was going that night to the Variétés.
I made her twice repeat to me this information, for the choice of the theatre seemed extraordinary, but, reflecting on the prince’s taste for vaudevilles, I explained it to myself.
I sent to secure a stall, and in the evening went to that theatre.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE BEAR AND THE PACHA.
AMONG OTHER PLAYS at the Variétés that evening, they were giving “The Bear and the Pacha.” This was one of M. de Fersen’s triumphs at Constantinople, where he had taken, with great success, the part of Schaabaham, and he was most eager to see Brunet playing the same part Madame de Fersen arrived about nine o’clock, with her husband and the Duchess of —— . They took their places in a proscenium box, of which the lattices were half raised.
Catherine saw me, and gave me a gracious bow.
I found her pale and changed.
I have no recollection of the piece they played, and on the fall of the curtain I went to Madame de Fersen’s box.
She was not well. I was looking at her attentively, when the prince said: “Be our umpire; you rarely see Madame de Fersen, and can better than any one notice a change; do you not find she has fallen away very much?”
I said I did not think so; that Madame de Fersen
seemed to me in perfect health. The prince proclaimed me an impudent flatterer, etc.
The curtain rose, and I left the box.
I returned to my seat.
They began “The Bear and the Pacha.”
This burlesque did not bring a smile to Madame de Fersen’s countenance, but her husband applauded frantically, and I must confess I shared the general merriment.
One of those loudest in laughter was a man seated just in front of me, and of whom I could only see the thick, gray, curly locks.
I had never heard such ringing, joyous laughter, — at times it became almost convulsive. At these times the man clung with both hands to the barrier dividing the stalls from the orchestra, and, strengthened by this prop, gave full scope to his hilarity.
Nothing is more contagious than laughter; the witticisms of the play had already excited my risible faculties, and, in spite of myself, the wild uproariousness of this man so affected me that I soon was nothing more than his echo, and to each of his immoderate bursts I responded with a no less boisterous explosion of laughter.
In short, I had not noticed that Madame de Fersen had left the theatre.
The curtain fell, and I rose.
The man who had yielded to such boisterous mirth also rose, turned towards me as he put on his hat, and exclaimed, with a return of joyful glee: “What a buffoon that Odry is!”
Amazed, I leaned on the back of my stall.
I had recognised the pirate of Porquerolles, the pilot of Malta.
I remained riveted to my seat, which was the end one of the orchestra. His seat was in front of mine, no one had to pass by us, and the spectators were slowly filing out.
It was indeed he!
It was his look, his bony, bronzed face, his thick, black eyebrows, his sharp teeth pointed and divided, as I could see, for he smiled with his strange smile, as he gazed at me audaciously.
The footlights were lowered, and the theatre became dark.
“It is you!” I cried, at length coming out of my stupor, and as if my chest had thrown off an enormous weight.